


Meet Me at My Grave

by VTsuion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Gen, Implied Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: John was on his way to a cemetery to meet a man he had seen die, following a text from an unlisted number that sounded creepy in and out of context. At least the location fit. But this was the closest thing to hope that he had.





	Meet Me at My Grave

"Meet me at my grave - S," the text read.

John sat in Sherlock's- what had been Sherlock's chair by the fireplace, staring at the message. The black letters in a sea of white backlight burned into his mind.

Sherlock was  _ dead _ .

John had seen his friend fall from the roof of St. Bart's. He had seen Sherlock's body broken and  _ dead _ upon the concrete. The text could not be from him.

_ But it had to be. _

No, it didn't, and he knew it. His phone wouldn't even tell him the sender’s number; "Unlisted," it said. It was a prank or a trap - he knew there were several people who likely wanted him dead too - that was all it could be.

_ But- _

No! Sherlock was  _ DEAD _ ! He just had to get used to the fact.

_ But what if… _

He grabbed the head of his cane - of course, his limp had returned - and forced himself to his feet.

This was ridiculous.

He limped to the door and shoved on his coat.

This could so easily be a trap. What if he got himself killed?

_ Then so be it. _

He knew that way of thinking couldn't be healthy, but there was nothing to be done about it.

He shuffled down the stairs and called a cab. Several passed him by before he realized why. His reflection stared back at him for only an instant in the windows of passing cars, but he saw himself clearly. He looked ragged and unkempt. His clothes looked like they had been on for too long and his face was covered in uneven stubble. His eyes were wild and desperate.

Finally, a cab stopped anyway and he got in, instructing the man to take him to the cemetery.

_ No turning back now. _

Brilliant. He was on his way to a cemetery to meet a man he had seen die. At least the location fit.

John let out a harsh, dry laugh that sounded more like a sob - he wasn't so sure that it wasn't one.

"Are you alright?" The cabby said hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to be asking - John didn't blame him.

John shook his head, but answered, "I'm fine," all the same.

It wasn't long before they reached the cemetery - Sherlock had asked to be buried in the city. John stepped out of the car and trudged up the path on his mad mission.

He glanced at his phone, still clutched in his hand, to make sure that the text was still there, that he hadn't hallucinated it for lack of sleep. It was still there, though of course he could still be hallucinating…

But that was a bad assumption to act upon, just in case he wasn't.

And the assumption that a dead man had texted him was a better option?

He made his way over to the all too familiar grave site. It was still fresh, the grass that covered the other plots was a long way in coming.

He stared at the headstone as it reflected his form back at him. He had found Sherlock; six feet under.

This was absurd.

"Hello,” someone creaked from behind him.

John jumped and spun to face the source of the noise. It was a little old man, doubled over, clutching a cane.

"Are you looking for someone?" The old man asked, his voice almost painfully scratchy.

John sighed and nodded. "Yes." Though perhaps a “no” would have been more accurate.

"Good meeting places are hard to find," the man remarked, "Have to be careful you're not being watched, and there are cameras everywhere."

Great. It seemed the old man was paranoid, though John supposed he was one to talk, chasing a possibly hallucinatory text from a dead man. Real or not, the worst part was that he believed it-

"But I know a safe place, follow me," the man continued, grabbing John by the arm.

"Wait! There's someone-" John exclaimed, before stopping himself short.

This was absurd. Sherlock was dead. He shouldn't have come to begin with, but now that he had, he might as well follow the old man. Who knew, maybe it would be interesting, at the very least, take his mind off of things…

Surprisingly strong for someone of his age, the man dragged John through the cemetery, into the church, down several hallways, up a few flights of stairs, into a dusty old attic. It looked like it was full of boxes, never used. No one would ever think to look there…

_ Shit! _

The "old man" stretched himself out, proving to be much more limber than his form suggested.

John had guessed that it was a trap, he had said it to himself over and over again, but no, he was so desperate, and even when it was so obvious he still couldn't tell. There had to be some way out-

"Ah, that's much better," he heard Sherlock say, the detective's voice emanating from where, moments before, there had been a little old man.

And now he was sure he was hallucinating.

"Though, if it wasn't me, you'd probably be dead by now," Sherlock continued.

"I... I- I realized that…" John said, staring at Sherlock, dazed, his eyes wide in disbelief.

There was a long pause as Sherlock continued stretching out his arms and legs.

"You- you're alive…" John managed to get out.

"Yes, do keep up," Sherlock replied with a slight smile.

John hesitated.

It couldn’t be real. Sherlock was  _ dead _ . He saw him die! Was he hallucinating? Was he dreaming - if so, he hopped he never woke up. But there Sherlock was, standing right in front of him,  _ alive _ . But he couldn't be.  _ It couldn't be real. _

There was only one way to find out…

John slowly extended a hand, reaching out for something solid that he could grasp on to; to root him into reality.

What if there wasn’t anything there? John hesitated, paralyzed by fear, but he had to know!

He extended his hand and it ran into Sherlock's shoulder.

Solid! Alive! But what if he was hallucinating the contact?

All the while Sherlock was watching him with those sharp eyes, keenly observing. Finally, he said, "John… Are you alright? You look terrible." He gently removed John's hand from his shoulder to hold it gingerly in his own.

John let out a harsh laugh of agreement and relief and confusion and everything that came tumbling down around him. And he found himself laughing and crying all at once, doubled over as his sides ached and he could barely breathe, but he couldn't stop. John didn't know where he was or what was going on or if it was real or just a dream or a hallucination and he was ecstatic and terrified and he could feel himself falling apart at the seams.

He found himself sitting on the ground in the dusty attic, clinging to a very confused and possibly worried Sherlock.

"John… Are you alright?" Sherlock attempted again.

John nodded, forcing himself to extricate himself from Sherlock. "I'm… alive…" he replied lamely.

"That's an accurate assessment of the situation, yes."

John nodded again, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Sherlock hesitated. "I- I'm sorry for the shock. I didn’t have a choice. Jim" - he grimaced at the memory - "Said he had snipers ready to kill you and Ms. Hudson and even Lestrade unless I jumped."

"How- how did you survive?"

"Oh, a bit of magic." Sherlock grinned. "You know a conjurer gets no credit once he has explained his trick."

John couldn't place the quote, but it seemed fitting enough.

There was a moment's pause and he looked at Sherlock, sitting there,  _ alive _ . It didn't matter how it had happened, just that it had. Sherlock was  _ alive _ , he hadn't died there… But that meant there were more questions that needed answering.

John suddenly broke the silence, gaining steam as he talked, "You know you could have visited me, at home. Or sent me a less cryptic text, sooner perhaps, or maybe said something in that suicide note of yours!"

Sherlock grimaced. "I wasn't lying earlier. Your apartment's being watched."

"By whom?" John interrupted. "Moriarty's dead, isn't he? Or did he survive too?"

"No, he's dead. But he had friends, quite a few of them. There's no way to know they weren't watching, listening; that's why I called and left the 'note' in the first place. It had to be believable… It doesn't help that my dear older brother has decided to put me and you under surveillance as well - he doesn't want me contacting you. This is the only place I could think of where it would be natural for you to go, and there aren't any cameras to see us either way. No one would think to look for us here-"

"So it'll be the perfect crime" - a gruff voice came from the doorway.

They were cornered by a tall, rough man, carrying a sniper rifle, complete with a silencer, that was pointed at them.

His mind suddenly clear, John leaped to his feet, stepping between Sherlock and the unknown assailant, his pistol drawn.

"I'd put that down, if I were you. A gun's not a toy, though that one's close," the man taunted him. "And after you were so cooperative, too. Though I was sure I had lost you for a little while there."

"Sebastian Moran is it?" Sherlock asked conversationally, before John could say anything - "Jim's pet sniper," he explained with a grimace.

"You're one to talk of keeping pets," Moran retorted, cocking the gun with a loud click.

John pulled the trigger without a second thought. A loud bang echoed through the church and Sebastian Moran fell to the ground.

"We need to get out of here," Sherlock exclaimed, hastily putting back on his disguise until standing in his place was a frail old man, "I'm supposed to be dead, and you don't need the publicity."

"How do you suppose we do that?" John demanded. The sound of footsteps already pounded on the stairs.

"Follow me."

Sherlock pulled open the window.

"Sherlock, don't!" John shouted, his voice shaking with fear as the image of the man before him, falling to his death, flashed across his mind's eye.

"Don't worry." Sherlock grabbed John's hand in a way he hopped was reassuring. "We're climbing out, we've just got to go quickly!"

Sherlock threw both their canes out ahead of them and somehow the pair of them managed to clamor down the side of the building as they heard people shouting from inside. A black car was already waiting for them in the driveway. They piled in and then they were off.

For a moment they sat side by side in the back of the car, catching their breaths.

"That was…" John began, glancing at Sherlock.

Their eyes met and they couldn't help but begin to laugh until they were doubled over, their sides aching.

"Brilliant, Sherlock! Positively brilliant!" John exclaimed, as soon as he could talk, "Climbing out the window - what were we thinking? What if someone had seen us?"

"It would have been a strange sight indeed," Sherlock replied, a wide grin across his face, "People will talk now," he teased.

John grinned back. "Let them."

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most presentable of the fics I wrote during my Sherlock phase (when everyone was into Sherlock), revised in 2019 for cross-posting. Maybe I'll eventually cross-post another with some more major revisions. I'm also currently working on a more substantial Sherlock fic that should be out soon...


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